


Beneath the Veil of Winter

by BlueMonkey, regina_stellaris



Category: Beneath the Veil of Winter
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Eventual Smut, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Post-Movie, Slow Build, Winter Veil, movie and game lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 01:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9049918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueMonkey/pseuds/BlueMonkey, https://archiveofourown.org/users/regina_stellaris/pseuds/regina_stellaris
Summary: Lothar deals with his grief by drowning himself in alcohol; Khadgar finds a different way.





	

It is the third time that week. Khadgar wakes up at dawn, slips into his clothes for the day and passes Lothar's quarters on the way to breakfast. The third time when there are no shoes in front of the door; the third time he doesn't get a curse to piss off at an hour like this when he knocks. So it is with a heavy heart and on an empty stomach that he makes for the Gilded Rose again.

Empty. That is what Lothar feels. Nothing but emptiness, as vast and lifeless as the world the Orcs came from. The scars that Callan's death have left on him have gotten infested, Medivh's and Llane's passing acting like sicknesses corrupting the wounds, ripping them open once more. And Garona—Lothar cannot think of her with anything but bittersweet hatred. He had thought that the one moment they shared had meant something to her—he had felt guilty for using her, and immensely thankful all the same for having an outlet. But the wound still grew, still hurt. As it does now.

The emptiness consumes him. He tries to fill it with something, so he eats. Except everything he chews on turns rotten in his mouth, and he cannot stomach more than a few bites at the time. Thus he now turns to alcohol, which burns in his veins like cursed blood and keeps the pain of his life away with an edge of dullness that nothing else ever achieved. It feels as if he needs to drink, or he would die of dehydration from the flood of tears.

He is in the Gilded Rose, and doesn't remember when he came here. He doesn't know how much he drank, he doesn't know where he will sleep. All he knows is that Khadgar, who just happens to enter the inn, is far too sober for his taste. "Khadgar!" He roars it to the mage while slamming his mead on the bar. The innkeeper gives with a dirty look, but Lothar ignores it. "Come ‘ere, sid down!"

"It is morning," Khadgar mutters. Bleary-eyed, he does as he is told, but only to not antagonize an intoxicated friend from the get-go. Lothar is terrible when drunk. It is almost as if he no longer wants to be sober. So Khadgar shares a look with the innkeeper, who has seen the same thing happen twice before; Khadgar indulges in Lothar's whims for a few minutes, or as long as it takes for him to finish his drink, and then starts on what always ends up a lengthy discussion to get Lothar back into his own bed to sleep off the hangover. Khadgar does not hope that he will be good today. "Come on," he says. "You have to be up in a few hours to meet the queen. Better get some sleep while you can, hm?"

He doesn't expect an agreement though. Khadgar understands all too well why Lothar is drinking. It is why Khadgar buries himself in his studies. They have seen too many dead, the both of them. He has never connected with the king much, nor with Garona for that matter; nothing more than a degree of amicability and respect. But Medivh has hit him hard, and it must be ten times worse for Lothar.

Still, it has been almost a month. Life goes on. And yet Khadgar is stuck picking Lothar up from the gutter, night after night. He pushes the glass back on the counter as soon as Lothar finishes it, then kindly starts, "There you go. Let's go now, okay?"

But Lothar doesn't want to go. Going home means going to a place with no alcohol, which means that he will sober up after some time, which in turn means that he will feel like shit—if he is lucky—or he will feel like shit and have nightmares in his sleep on top of it. And really, he does not want to face his sister for more than is necessary. Lothar failed to protect her husband after all. It is ridiculous, really, how many people he has failed over his lifetime. Llane is just one more person on the parchment alongside his son. Lothar knows he's going to fail Varian as well. 

"I'm not going," he therefore says, eyes the innkeeper up. "One more." The man squints his eyes at the drunk commander, then shakes his head. Lothar's fist collides with the bar. "One more, dammit." The man, however, is not faced in the slightest by this. He seems well used to this behavior. Lothar pouts for all of ten seconds before he slides from his stool, swaying to the side harshly, but able to catch himself right before he falls. "Come, spell-chucker," he lulls. "Let's find another inn."

There is no easy way to deal with him. No magic word, no promise that Khadgar can hold over his head. Experience doesn't make it easier. So he plays along until they are outside, then starts guiding the Lion of Azeroth back to the keep. The man weighs heavy on his shoulders. Khadgar tries to stay nice. "I thought we got past that name," he smiles with all the expression of the word evoking a fond memory; not the weariness that the derogative really calls forth. It would not be helpful to call Lothar out on it, anyway. "It's Winter Veil in a few days. How about you get a quick nap, make an appearance in Old town and then we find your sister and your cousins some nice presents?"

"How abou' we skip the nap an' go straight to eggnog testing." Lothar's speech pattern dissolves into unintelligible babble. He hangs on Khadgar's shoulder, not realizing how his weight drags the mage down. He doesn't care about anything else than drinking right now, thus he tries to guide their steps towards another inn. The Bannered Mare or something else. He doesn't want to go back to the castle just yet. "Come on, bookworm, the day's still young!"

"Lothar, the day is young for people who slept." Khadgar is beginning to lose his patience. It always happens sooner or later. The more often he is expected to get the man home after a drunken night, the sooner that becomes. "I swear, if you're not coming with me by choice, I'll port you." They both know what that'll do to Lothar's stomach.

Lothar stops. His breath, stinking of alcohol, breathes against Khadgar's face. "I could hav' you arreshted for that," he drawls, then hangs on Khadgar's shoulder like a sack. Suddenly, his stomach does not agree with him, and everything spins. "Fuck," he swears, then slips from the mage's grip and stumbles towards a darker ally, then proceeds to loudly empty his stomach onto the pavement. Perhaps it was the mental image of porting, but something upsets his stomach like nothing else.

Khadgar sighs and waits from a distance. The pitiful sight tugs at his heart. Part of him wants to give comforting words, or even to give Lothar the opportunity to get it out of his system. Talk. But at the same time he fears that it will only give him the opportunity to wallow, to sink further into his misery. "Come on," he pats his back gently when Lothar finishes up. The acid stench of vomit and alcohol breath is ignored with difficulty. "There, that's out now. Headache?" They are in an alley they have once shown Garona during a quick tour, and he hopes that Lothar has forgotten that; anything to do with her seems to bring on a heated discussion lately.

Lothar does not remember the alley. Currently, he remembers nothing but agony. But he welcomes it like an old friend, since the pain is at least different from feeling the nothingness gnaw at his insides. The headache throbbing behind his eyes makes it difficult to see, the light hurting his eyes. Perhaps Khadgar can carry him? He feels as if he could sleep for a century. "I think I need a bed." It might be an admission for help, an indirect wish for someone to aid him—Lothar doesn't know himself. All he wants right now is a glass of water. "And water."

He lets himself be pulled to the castle by Khadgar, who quite determinedly makes sure that the warrior doesn't walk off on his own again. As if Lothar could. The city becomes far too bright, and the noises he hears from the castle are overwhelming him. He knows that his drunken state is on the verge of transgression, turning into a hangover without Lothar able to stop it. And he knows that no healer will attend to him, since his sister wants him to learn from his mistakes. "When is the meeting with Taria, bookworm?" asks he. He is becoming a little clearer in the head. It is the only good thing about being out in the crisp air. 

Will snow start to fall this year, he wonders? Will there even be snow? He wouldn't mind some, even though it brings back memories he'd rather not remember right now. "Light, I need another drink."

"Khadgar," sighs the mage. "My name is Khadgar. I thought you knew it by now." He manhandles Lothar up the steps, bemoaning how the turn of events that have left them without a king and Guardian, without an important ally, have also turned him into a babysitter. He is almost not allowed to mourn for himself, the way he keeps having to clean up after Lothar. And shouldn't Lothar know better, being older and all? "I am getting you water, and then you'll sleep. Be happy that nobody saw you on the streets. The Lion of Azeroth," he sighs, "felled by grief."

But he has no illusions that people do not already know. Lothar makes sure to spend his time in public inns after all. For all the people know, it went down south after the funeral. They haven't seen Lothar when Callan died. When Garona was there to comfort him—or distract him, if that's what it was. Khadgar had figured that one out soon enough.

By the time they stumble into Lothar's quarters, Lothar has become heavy and Khadgar wishes he could go back to his own bed and sleep. "You should not have been in that final battle," he mutters. The final battle, he fears, is what did it. And Lothar had been so proud of Khadgar only hours earlier. That kindness, that relief had woken something that he now wishes he could extinguish just as easily, for Khadgar hasn't seen that look in Lothar's eyes again since.

Although Lothar is busy trying not to stumble over his own feet, he hears the mage's words all the same. Anger rises within him like bile, and for a moment he is sure that he will throw up once more; but the feeling passes, and takes with it the last remains of his composure. All that is left is rage and hurt. "You mean leave my king alone?" He asks it with a sharp tone, wants to make sure that Khadgar knows how he feels about this. "I s—shwore to protect him. And I failed. The least I could've done is die with him." He wishes, desperately, that he had. But his prowess in battle had saved him once more, and perhaps, deep down, he hadn't been ready. Not when that young mage in Karazhan had looked at him like he was his entire world for a moment.

He sways, then sits down on his bed and buries his head in his hands. The situation is utterly hopeless, at least for him. Emotions tangle together until they're naught but a web, impossible to figure out. "I am tired, Khadgar," he says. "I'm so tired."

"The only thing you did there that was right was kill the man who took your son." Khadgar's voice softens. Being angry will only fuel Lothar's anger to greater heights, and it is barely contained as it is. "You couldn't have saved King Llane. And I'm more than happy that at least you did come back alive. Don't say that you would have died with him. There are others depending on you, don't you know that? Your sister, and her children. You are the Lion, Lothar. You don't see it, but you embody courage to the people of Stormwind." Or at least to those who haven't seen him drunk yet. "If you give up on that, you give up on the city's hope."

He crouches down on the floor in front of him. Although he has done so many times, Khadgar hopes that this time his soft smile is infectious. "We need you," he encourages. "Those who still live need you."

Lothar wants to believe that; wants to listen to the voice telling him that he is the people's hope. But he knows that he isn't. "I don't think so, Khadgar," he therefore says quietly, bends down and starts undoing his boots. At least he tries. "I mean, look at me. An idiot who didn't even manage to protect his son—" When he thinks of Callan, of how young he had been—of the times he denied him fatherly comfort because he felt too awkward about it—he wants to cry. His vision swims as his eyes fill with tears. His voice breaks, "—or his king, for that matter. I've failed." He is far too close to being sober and hungover now. The fresh air has done its best to dissipate the fog inside his head. He hates it.

He doesn't see what his fingers are doing, and when he tries to slip out of his right boot, he finds it still closed. "Khadgar, help me with this."

It is with a weary heart that Khadgar does as he is asked. He switches to the left boot, then starts helping Lothar with the top buttons of his tunic. Khadgar tries to keep a straight face there. He thinks about anything that won't make something in his chest flutter, and truthfully, the stench of alcohol is doing its magic. But it isn't just Lothar's breath that smells of it. It is in his tunic, and Khadgar dares to venture that it clings to his breeches as well. Not for the first time he considers asking Taria if she will lock him up for long enough to sober him up; this is getting ridiculous. "You didn't fail me. We took down Sargeras, do you remember? We stopped the Dark Portal." When Khadgar looks up at Lothar, his eyes are wet with tears of frustration. "Just stop looking at what you lost and start paying attention to what you still have, you idiot."

"If that were as easy, I would do it!" Lothar says hotly, "I keep dreaming about them, about all that I could've done to prevent this. If I had just realized that something had been wrong with Medivh from the start, I might've been able to …" He stops talking. It hurts that he was fooled for so many years by someone he trusted so completely. Sighing, he shrugs out of his tunic and flings it into a corner to be taken away later. Shirtless, his hands wander to his breeches, completely unaware what he is doing to the mage with it. Sniffing, he realizes that he reeks. "Dammit, I need a bath." 

Before he can open and slide out of the rest of his clothes, his way leads him to the chest in which he keeps his clothes. With his back to the mage, he starts talking once more. "Thank you for fetching me, Khadgar." He does not dare look the young man in the eye, lest he sees disgust—and worse, pity—in them.

Khadgar nods stiffly. He feels hollow when he is dismissed, though he knows he should be glad; breakfast is still waiting, his stomach empty, and he has done what he came here to do, which is get Lothar back into his own quarters to sober up. "Goodnight, Lothar," he says awkwardly. "I hope you dream of good things this time."

All of a sudden, Lothar's entire world shifts. He suddenly realizes what Khadgar meant before. _Focus on that which you have not lost. Focus on the living._ Perhaps it is selfishness, or perhaps something he cannot name, but the thought of the mage leaving him right now is as agonizing as reliving his son's death. Before he can stop himself, he has already turned around and called out to the younger man, "Wait!" And then he stands there, unable to explain what he wants, unable to tell Khadgar why the mere thought of him leaving Lothar right now is pure agony. And for all he knows it could be agony for Khadgar as well.

Guiltily, Lothar sees the younger man in front of him as if for the first time. Khadgar looks like before. Nothing has changed about his appearance, but there is a darkness in his eyes these days. Khadgar has seen things; was forced to kill the person who could've very well been his mentor. Whom he was meant to replace.

Without thinking, Lothar's feet carry him towards the younger man, and soon enough his strong arms embrace the mage, gripping him tight. "I'm sorry for being such a selfish asshole."

This is new to Khadgar, who has been pushed away from the beginning until that one point where Lothar looked at him like an equal. Never has the man moved to hold him tight, and Khadgar didn't expect him to ever feel the need to. He slowly puts his own arms around Lothar as well, as awkward as it is. "You're dealing with grief," he whispers. "We all deal with grief in different ways." Loath is he to point out that Lothar is still bare-chested, and that even though most of that doesn't make it through the thick layer of his winter coat, his hands still touch naked skin.

It is new too in the way that aside from Taria, nobody has really consoled him for what he lost either. There is a lump in his throat. Lothar isn't being impossible by laughing at his weakness or otherwise making a fool out of him in his drunken state. "I mean it. Live for the living. There is enough left to fight for."

"That doesn't make up for all the times I relied on you," Lothar whispers against Khadgar's shoulder. He relishes in the cold coming from the younger man's winter clothes. With his eyes closed, he feels a little bit more at peace with the world—with himself—than he has in a long time. "You are mourning as well, and I—I just take you for granted. I should have paused for a moment to realize that you have problems too, instead of forcing my own upon you."

If he presses Khadgar a little closer to him, then he pretends he does not. It feels nice to have someone in his arms once more, even if it is a very cold bookworm. The thought brings a soft smile to his face.

If that smile was seen, Khadgar would have felt much better. As it is, he is working hard on trying to hide his face from Lothar, because he fears that it might be an open book to read. Here he is, pressed up against the half naked form of a man he wishes would just acknowledge him. For all that Sargeras's demise has been accredited mostly to Khadgar, he feels like he has no idea how to deal with himself. His emotions are all over the place. Which is wrong, all wrong, when they are for a man he gives himself very little chance with. "It's alright," he murmurs, his voice shaky. "I just wished you'd mourn differently. You're just shutting out your thoughts by drinking, but that won't mean they will just one day be gone." Closing his eyes, he admits, "I study hard. I mean, I know people expect a lot of me, but that's not why I do it. I push myself until I can't anymore. If I study hard enough, there is a chance I'll dream about that. It's better than the alternative. I just need the distraction."

"You shouldn't push yourself so hard." For some reason, one of his hands find their way into Khadgar's hair. It just feels so natural for him to do so that he isn't even really aware of it himself. "You should also enjoy your life before you are swallowed by duty." Finally, the cold gets to Lothar. Gently, he pries his arms away from Khadgar to rest his hands upon the younger man's shoulders. He doesn't say it, but the physical contact has done wonders for his mood. He would really like to get some more from the younger man, but he doesn't want to leech. Yet it wouldn't hurt to ask, right? "Khadgar?" he starts. "Would you…stay a little longer? With me, I mean?" He can't help but rub a hand against his neck in awkwardness.

There is no chance for Khadgar to avoid letting Lothar look at him, now. "I haven't eaten," he confesses. "I could come back with some bread and stay with you then?" Eyes trail down…and very quickly focus back on Lothar. Khadgar feels like the worst person alive for still liking this man right now, intoxicated and unaware of so many things. It would be easier if he could stop it. His interest borders on being unhealthy. "You should get dressed. It's winter; you could catch a cold. Just give me five minutes, okay? I'll be quick." Because he does want to stay. This is the first time Lothar is asking for support.

Khadgar slips away before either of them can say anything more. If only because he needs to breathe. He spends a minute outside the door, cursing himself, and then rushes to the kitchen so that he can make it back before Lothar will have fallen asleep.

Or worse, gotten the wrong idea.

He left no space for Lothar to respond before practically fleeing from the room. Lothar sighs, then goes outside and stops a random maid, asking her to fetch him some water. She returns minutes later, which means that Lothar can finally get out of his disgusting breeches. On one hand, he would really like to take a warm bath and wash all the filth of his alcoholic adventures off of his body. On the other hand, this would take too long to set up. Thus he only washes himself in quick strides until his skin crawls with the cold and goosebumps rise from his body. Standing in his room in the nude can do that to a person.

He doesn't look at the time, instead washing himself as thoroughly as possible. The washcloth he uses is from one of his old shirts, and it serves its purpose right. So focused is he on the task of getting clean that he doesn't really take notice of anything else.

Khadgar carries three loafs, a pitcher of milk and a plate stacked with bacon with him. He has dealt with hangovers before, and he knows exactly what to bring with him t—

" _What_ are you doing?" he cries out when he returns to the back of a very much naked Lothar. "Whoa! Don't—don't leave your door open like that!" Khadgar hurries to put breakfast down, then rushes even faster to close the door. There was a maid just a few doors up ahead. Did she see? "I mean," his eyes are now fiercely aimed at the ground, "it's good that you're cleaning up. It is. Uh. I brought you breakfast." Why is this his life? Khadgar groans. "You're torturing me, is that it? For having pulled you out of the inn, or some other reason I am yet unaware of? Look, I can still go. Is this, ah, yes, this is definitely a private moment. I should go."

Lothar isn't really concerned at first. Only when the younger man says something about torture does he turn to him halfway while scrubbing the cloth across his chest. "Torture? How am I torturing you?" His confusion is very real. "Have you never seen another naked man in your life?" But just to placate the mage, he grips the blanket from his bed and wraps it around his still moist skin. "And don't leave, dammit. I just wanted to stop stinking of mead when we had breakfast." He lets the cloth slip into the rest of the water and goes towards the bed, then looks at the breakfast Khadgar has brought. "Thanks."

"Not every naked man is the same," flounders Khadgar, right before his face grows red as a beet when he realizes what he said. To cover it up, he quickly squints his eyes and points out, "You're oddly coherent for someone who spent his night in an inn." And then, because he keeps putting his foot in his own mouth, adds, "Which is a good thing? But I'm really confused?"

Either Lothar doesn't care for Khadgar's previous words, or he doesn't interpret them the same way. "Believe me, I wish I was still under the sweet spell of alcohol," he can't help the grin that accompanies that sentence. "But someone dragged me through the cold city, and then I puked my guts out." He sighs and sits down on the bed. "And I burn through alcohol pretty fast. Why do you think do I spend most of the night in the inn? I need to drink a lot for it to actually keep my problems at bay." This is not supposed to turn into an explanation of his drinking habits, though, so Lothar changes the subject. "Come on, lets eat." He pats the space next to him on the mattress with his obvious want to have Khadgar beside him.

"I don't regret that," huffs Khadgar, who is all too glad that Lothar is, after a drinking spell, thick as a solid door. He hops up on the bed next to the man, shifts to rearrange his clothing under him and then takes a sip from the pitcher of milk. The cool drink soothes his nerves as well as his stomach, and if he cared more about it, he would apologize for having not been able to carry any glasses. He doesn't care. "Maybe," he starts when he puts the milk away and reaches for the bread, offering half of the loaf to Lothar—feeling daring now that Lothar has become less unpredictable—, "you just drink very slowly. Which I don't mind. Maybe you don't really like the taste of the mead. I'm more of a person for wine, so you wouldn't have to explain that to me at all." He really hopes that his attempt at keeping Lothar distracted works.

Lothar takes the loaf and bites off a pretty chunk. He relishes the feeling. Bread is good, always good. "Wine is fine, but not suited for drinking yourself to oblivion. At least for me. I prefer something heartier. And wine is too fruity for my taste." He shrugs and takes the pitcher, then drinks from it as well, doesn't even think anything of it. As a soldier, he has learned to share his provisions without care for other people's germs. "Have you actually ever tasted mead, Khadgar?" 

It feels almost like a normal conversation between two friends, although Lothar is still naked beneath the blanket wrapped around his body. He sneaks a piece of bacon into his mouth and lets the saltiness melt on his tongue, then drinks another sip of milk while he waits for an answer. Tiredness slowly creeps into his bones, and he feels exhausted, but alive at the same time. That quick washing really lifted his spirits.

"Once," shrugs Khadgar, who is more awake than Lothar, and far less weary than he used to be. They haven't really talked like this before. Like comrades. Like, Khadgar thinks, they are on the same level. He feels himself swell with a sort of pride. "I didn't like it. Same for ale. I mean, I can drink it, and you shouldn't challenge me because bad things will happen if you do, but I never, I don't know, felt the need to get that far gone that I would forget things. So that means, yes, going for the drinks that actually taste alright." As he talks, Lothar's state becomes apparent. Khadgar finishes his sentence, eats bread and then, because he feels like it wouldn't be strange to do so now, moves over to lie down on the side of the bed that Lothar doesn't use. At least, he hopes so; it is the only tidy spot in the room. Khadgar tucks his hands between his head and the pillow. "I am thinking of doing a fireworks show," he says. "For Winter Veil. It's not much, but who knows, a few people might like it."

"What, you really think you could keep up with me in a challenge?" Lothar's eyes shimmer with mirth, but are immediately screwed shut as a yawn forces its way out of him. He sighs and stands up, then goes to the chest and pulls a clean shirt and some soft pants out of them. This is what he usually uses to sleep in, anyway, so he slips into the pants beneath the blanket and pulls the shirt over his head. He stretches and then returns to the bed, not taking more than a faint notice of Khadgar lying on the mattress. "Perhaps we could try that out at one point." He clears the plate of bread and bacon, then drinks from the pitcher once more, before he rests as well, coming to lie down on his back, his gaze on the ceiling. "Firework? Sounds fantastic." He doesn't really know what a firework would be like, never really having seen one before but for the short journeys to Booty Bay. "Will you do one at New Year's as well?" He doesn't know why, but his gaze is drawn towards Khadgar's face, and his arms itch to drag the young man into a hug once more.

"We'll try it when you no longer need it to feel better." Khadgar feels mellow. The light that filters in through the window is soft, and barely there through thick curtains that look like they have been drawn for days. There is nowhere he needs to go. He sent a quick message to Taria in the kitchens, ‘Lothar' being the only thing he needed to mention; she will know. So now any people looking for his help will have to go through her first, while he tries to talk some sense back into the man. That is what Lady Taria will think, anyway; this person who is watching him with an odd glance in his eyes seems sensible enough almost to assume he hasn't been trouble in the first place. "I would show you fireworks right now, if you didn't have a headache," he says.

"Yes, please don't." Lothar knows how a firework works; he doesn't need to see any right now, thank you very much. Instead, he lies there next to Khadgar, content and ready to fall asleep. But he is afraid. Afraid that he will dream about his son again, or how he didn't manage to protect him from the cruel fate that befell him. He sighs, then moves until he is on his side, facing the young man next to him with an expression as serious as a sword made of steel. "Say, Khadgar," he doesn't know how to voice his question, but then swallows his weakness. He hates that he is currently weak in front of Khadgar, but he cannot help it. He feels used and empty. "Say, Khadgar, would you mind—staying with me for a bit?" He swallows. "Just until I have fallen asleep. To make sure I don't have—nightmares?"

Khadgar looks at Lothar for a long time; this strong and prideful man, who asks him now in all honesty for help. "Of course," he says. To be given this trust is a bit surreal, considering that he did very little to earn it. "I'll stay until you wake up, so you don't have nightmares. I can't promise you that I won't fall asleep myself," he says, his eyes dark and wide as he tries to evaluate Lothar's decision. There is no way that this will come back to bite him in the ass, is there? No jokes about Lothar asking him to join him in his bed, or other remarks that Khadgar feels too fragile to handle right now? "I'm here," he says. "Go to sleep."

Lothar smiles then, real and with a sliver of shyness that he hasn't known he possessed. He closes his eyes, lets his head rest on the cushion; is asleep in mere minutes when exhaustion and the tiny rest of alcohol still in his system take him under. That doesn't however mean he is resting, for his slumber is muddled by frightening images. He sees Callan once more, run through by Blackhand's weapon. Blood flows from his lips. This time however, there is no barrier. Lothar could've saved his son. He chose not to. The very thought makes him want to throw up, and he shakes his head, trying to get rid of the horrible dream.

Unconsciously, he grabs for something, anything, that will ease his pain. He is seeing Callan die all over again. Finding something warm against his side, he drags it close and embraces it like a madman who needs a drink after surviving the desert for too long. Whatever he is holding is warm and soft. Some of the tension drains out of him. He feels a comfort he hasn't felt in years, like someone is watching over him, and finally, the pictures dissipate. The rest of his sleep is strong and peaceful.

At the same time, Khadgar's is anything but. He startles awake when someone tugs him into a hug almost so tight that he can't breathe. He stiffens in the arms, crumbs falling from his shirt, and only relaxes when he understands what is going on. A nightmare, Lothar had called it. But Khadgar had not expected him to actually have one. He is faced with a man who breathes fast and makes sounds that sound so utterly helpless that for a moment he can't relate them to Lothar. These are two different people. 

"Shh," he murmurs sleepily. Back in Dalaran he used to know a dog that calmed down from an unruly sleep when he petted it, so without any other ideas to go by, he does the same. His hand strokes down Lothar's back. Oh, he hopes it isn't going to wake the man. There would be things to explain if Lothar did. "Just a nightmare. Just a nightmare. Relax."

Slow so as not to further rouse him, Khadgar turns on his side. One arm drapes over Lothar's side. He tries to find a comfortable position, but really all he can look at is a face closer than he imagined he would ever get to it.

Lothar calms down significantly. It feels as if the great Lion of Azeroth is tamed, but really, he is simply comforted. Without knowing, the warrior snuggles closer to the source of warmth. It makes him feel better than he has in days. His nightmare dissolves into nothingness, making place for hazy images he cannot remember. A hand is stroking his back. For a moment, he imagines it is Cally stroking him, a thing she used to do for him when he was upset about something. But his consciousness knows that Cally has long been dead, and that the person now caressing his back is likely to be someone else. Taria, maybe? Besides her, he cannot imagine anyone doing this for him.

Lothar realizes though that he doesn't care who exactly gives him this sweet motion, now. Still on the edge of sleep, he gratefully sinks back into oblivion, the memory of someone being nice to him the thing tugging him under.

Khadgar stays awake for a while longer. It is the warmth that finally does him under. Someone is holding him while he sleeps where nobody has done so before. He isn't one to draw parallels with never having had a family, certainly not when it pertains to the Lion, and yet he feels safe. Like he is not alone. And really, he thinks as his eyes fall shut and he wriggles himself into a more comfortable position himself as well, Lothar has lost the same person. A friend, if not a hero like Medivh has been to Khadgar. But the same person nonetheless.

He wakes hours later, with the sun already on its descent and the room beginning to get uncomfortably warm. Khadgar murmurs something to himself. Trust him to fall asleep with his clothes on. And with the very alien and very welcome weight of someone else against him. A flush spreads across his features. "Lothar," he whispers. "Lothar, wake up."

As the other man is not used to sharing a bed anymore either, Lothar jerks awake when he hears a voice. His head snaps up, looking around the room in sleepy confusion, before his gaze stumbles upon the mage. He feels warm all over, the temperature in his room pleasant to the point where he normally would consider getting rid of his shirt for the night. But is it only due to the air in his room, and not the mage in his bed? As he thinks it, a flush crawls up his face as well. He is too busy to hide his own to notice Khadgar's at all. "Er—yes, I'm awake." He sits up slowly, rubbing his head. The headache throbbing behind his eyes is not as bad as it would've been had he continued drinking hours before. A glance to the window tells him that the day is almost over, though. Wonderful, how long did he sleep? "Dammit, I need to get to that thing with Taria, don't I?"

"That thing with Taria?" Khadgar repeats. He extracts himself slowly, because now that they are both awake, it is all a tinge more awkward than when Lothar was still sleeping; now Khadgar has to care about someone else's opinion. "Yes, that thing with Taria. No, you don't."

Lothar looks to Khadgar then, finally. "What?" Did he just imagine Khadgar saying something about Taria when the younger man collected him from the inn? "You said something about a meeting, right?" He is confused and doesn't know if he just misheard something this morning or if there is more behind it. He clears his throat, itches for a drink. Not alcohol. Water.

That earns him a shrug. "I postponed it. It's fine. And I'm pretty sure that if you promise not to bother anyone for a week, one of the healers will sort out that headache for you." Khadgar grins sleepily. "Just this once."

Lothar groans. "What do you even mean by that, ‘not to bother anyone for a week'?" He can imagine the answer. His drinking is not his best social skill after all. "And since when can you postpone meetings with my sister?"

"Not to pester anyone for a cure for your headache," Khadgar rolls his eyes. "I wouldn't ask you not to drink for a full week. That's too advanced right now." He rather likes being in Lothar's bed, talking to Lothar like this. It is so different from what they are used to. So, as long as Lothar doesn't comment, Khadgar takes what he can get. "I may have told your sister that you needed a break, but that I'd watch over you. You know she wouldn't agree if I didn't."

"What, you got promoted to my personal babysitter?" Lothar should be furious about this, how Taria went over his head and decided things on her own, but he doesn't find the energy within him to do so right now. Not when he can still feel the warmth of Khadgar's body on his skin, even though they haven't been touching for a few minutes now. It feels…nice. Awkward, yes, but nice nonetheless. And Lothar is not about to voice any of his doubt, since enjoying the situation is far more pleasurable than whimsy explanations on his part. "Does this mean you will stay in Stormwind until further notice?"

"I more volunteered for the job, I suppose." Has Lothar truly not understood by now how Khadgar doesn't like him wasting his health and his liver by drinking until he sees double? As a friend, Khadgar insists towards himself. Which is an easy argument for the way his eyes keep darting to find Lothar when they are in the same room, these days. Khadgar feels like a kid when he catches himself. Having a tiny crush on the man half of Stormwind's eligible women want to wed is a disaster waiting to happen. "I'm staying until you feel better or another war commands me," he says. "You had a nightmare. Are you good?"

"I don't know if I should be thankful or not." Lothar sits up completely. "And yes, I'm good." He doesn't want to admit to the other that Khadgar's mere presence has managed to calm the raging images within his mind. Instead he slides from the bed and stretches, his body long and lithe. "Say, Khadgar," he turns around, "As a mage you can conjure water, right?" He scratches himself on the belly. "I'm thirsty, and I don't really want to venture to the kitchen right now. Too many people there."

"Uh. I can conjure pies?" Khadgar tries. He doesn't get up too. His head tells him to, to follow Lothar whatever he does, but he is very comfortable. And magic, magic is not at the top of his priorities. "There's milk, I'm sure?" Did Medivh ever put up with this blatant abuse of his knowledge of the arcane just to get a glass of water? He chuckles, stretches and hides his face into the pillow. "I'll go see if there's water in a bit, if you're sure it's too much," he offers at last. When he again appears, his expression is more serious. "Lothar? If you ever need me to stay around again? Just say it, okay?"

A chuckle escapes. Lothar cannot help himself. He almost asks the young mage if that is the reason he is so pudgy, but thinks better of it. The comment would have been pretty hurtful, and he doesn't want to scare Khadgar away again. Not when he finally admitted to the mage—and to himself—that he does not want to be alone. When the mage confirms for him that he can have this whenever he wants, he feels as if a weight is lifted from him. For some reason, Khadgar's company is nice, even though he wouldn't have thought this quite a month ago or so. 

"I will," he thus answers, sits back down on the bed. He tries the pitcher of milk, but the liquid has since gone stale. He says as much. "Milk is not such a good idea." He turns to look at the mage who obviously does not want to leave the bed just yet. "Comfortable?"

"Lazy," Khadgar says. "I slept too long today." As if to underline it, a yawn stretches across his face. "By the Light, your bed is much better than mine. I think they got one from one of the taverns because of the short notice, but I never noticed." In truth, getting up means having to go. That is why he is stalling, if he is honest. So far, his stalling has given him Lothar's clothes riding up and a notable lack of petty remarks. Finally he groans. "Fine. I'll try." He sits up into an unstable position, rubs his eyes and purses his lips. Words are unsure when they fall from his lips. Khadgar's eyes glow blue, a maelstrom around his fingertips white—and then a large body of water crashes down onto him and onto the bed.

He doesn't know if it is his instinct as a soldier, or his anticipation of a pitcher of water appearing before him, but Lothar jumps up the moment something looks as if it is crashing down upon his bed. When he notices that it is water, and sees the completely soaked mage, he cannot help it at all; he starts laughing. Nevermind that his bed is now completely soaked and needs new sheets, as well as a new mattress; the sight before him is just too priceless to think of anything else than amusement. "Oh Light, Khadgar," he manages to wheeze out between harsh breaths filled with laughter. His eyes are alive with mirth. "Are you okay?" And he dissolves again.

Khadgar is less amused. The water is cool for anyone to drink,which means that it's too cold to be doused in. A glare at Lothar turns into a teeth chattering shaking. "Yes, I'm okay," he manages to stammer out. "I haven't done this before. If you tell anyone, Lothar, I swear I will come back and do this again with you in it." He looks rather like a drowned puppy though, with his hair flat against his scalp and his clothing weighing twenty pounds more. "…Sorry about the bed."

"Nah, it's okay." Finally, Lothar manages to calm down a little. The bed is not the problem; he knows the right people in the castle to get a dry one as soon as he says it. What is of more concern is Khadgar's rather wet demeanor. It looks adorable, really, but the mage needs to get out of his wet clothes or else he will catch a cold. "How about I get you some dry clothes? I'd rather you not get sick." he goes to his chest and drags out trousers and a shirt, both clean enough to be worn. He never knows these days, with his not so sober nights and all. "Here," he holds both clothes to Khadgar. "I'll go get some water from the kitchen while you can change into these." Khadgar is a little shorter than Lothar and less muscled, but the clothes should fit him all the same. He does not think it weird when he gives them to the mage, and soon enough leaves the room in search of water.

Khadgar casts one last glance at the bed. The only solution he sees is fire, but conjuring up something as unchanneled as a fireball is asking for more trouble, not fixing any. So he resolves to getting out of his clothes, toweling himself dry and getting into Lothar's garments as fast as he can, as not to have anyone walk in on him just like he did. It's probably also best not to mention how the water got into his underwear and keeping them on would only be more embarrassing in the end. So far, it's all a mess. It is also, he realizes, the first time that he doesn't mind. Lothar is agreeable as well as grateful, which is a first.

He is clean by the time Lothar comes back, his hair sticking out in every which way. "So I have just been telling you what a terrible bed I have," he says, "but you can have it until your own dries." His fingers toy with the hem of slightly too large clothes that he really likes nonetheless. Khadgar is wearing Lothar's clothes. He tries not to look like the cat that got the cream about that.

The older man puts the large pitcher of water on to the bed. It is untouched, but he drank some when he arrived in the kitchen, even though he had to bear with the interested and amused glances of the cooks. Back there he had grumbled about the rudeness of it all and had taken the water, then gone as fast as he could. Here though, in the safety of his own room, he can relax again.

His glance finds Khadgar and his mouth goes dry. The mage is wearing his clothes—which Lothar did give him, come to think of it. He just hadn't known how good Khadgar would look in them. And the hair. It looks a little bit as if they had just—Lothar interrupts himself right then and there, takes the pitcher and drinks a large gulp of water to calm his sudden nerves. Light, how dare he direct his thoughts upon someone so young?

As he tries to hide it, he sits down on the bed again—or rather almost, because it is the last moment that he remembers Khadgar's rather delightful attempt at conjuring water. He snorts, then turns towards the mage. "I know how the beds in the inn are. I'd rather sleep on the floor. But don't worry, I met a maid on my way back and arranged everything with her." Until then, he finds another seat in the stool at his desk. Parchment is strewn upon it wildly and without a care. "So, what now?"

Khadgar jumps up. "Right! I'm sorry, I really should be going." He doesn't know what he was thinking, and he certainly overstayed. How did he just stick around hours after what he meant to do was finished? Hours. "Well." Pointing towards the door, he stumbles over his words. "I'd better get some work done today. Make sure you get yourself to a healer. It's probably a one-time offer, you know how they feel about hangover cures. Give in once and all of the city will start asking them." He points towards the door. "Goodnight then. Uh. Evening. Something. Well, bye."

Lothar's eyebrow wanders up. Does Khadgar not realize the kind of picture he will paint for the rest of the castle if he leaves Lothar's room now? "You do know that you're still wearing my clothes, right?" He doesn't know why he does it, but something within him screams at him to keep Khadgar close for just a little while longer. "If you leave my room wearing my clothes, people will assume that we…you know." He makes a gesture encompassing everything he doesn't want to say right now. Although doing it with Khadgar would certainly not be the worst thing in the world— _stop it, Lothar!_

"Would they?" Khadgar frowns. "It was an accident. The water, I mean." Would he mind being seen like that? But Lothar would, he thinks. This isn't about his own petty crush alone. The Lion of Azeroth and the boy mage; that won't be a pretty story. The idea dampens his spirits, because he wants it to be one. "So what do I do if I don't have clothes to go outside? Mine aren't dry before night, I can tell you that."

"Well," now is his chance and Lothar knows it. He is no fool, at least not when sober. And he isn't oblivious. "You could stay here if you wanted. At least until your clothes are dry." He shrugs, makes it seem like no big deal when it is anything but. "Or," he licks his lips. "We could share the bed once it is changed." His gaze cannot meet Khadgar's eyes right now. "It was very nice sleeping next to someone again."

No response comes for a long couple of seconds. Lothar is asking Khadgar to sleep with him, without actually sleeping with him. Khadgar did offer, he supposes; but he had imagined it to be something of Lothar being an emotional mess, needing someone to calm him down. "Right," he snaps out of it. "Yeah. Anything. I mean. I really don't think anyone is going to notice these clothes, Lothar. They don't have your name spelled on them or anything. But if you want me to stay, I could be persuaded." Mischief appears in his eyes. "I just slept though. It'll be hours before I'm sleepy again. I'd miss dinner. You're asking me to stay in your room all day. That's a long time."

The gaze Khadgar now fixes him with almost makes Lothar change his mind. Almost. Instead he gets in on the game. "What do you have in mind to kill the time?" He drinks another sip of water, delights in the way it moistens his dry throat.

"What do you propose?" points out Khadgar. "Can I get you to bring me books? Dinner? I promised Adariall I'd tell her a story before sleeping tonight." He is just really seeing how far he can push it. "I mean, I can't do any of those things because of your clothes."

And his own little stint with the water. But Khadgar doesn't mention that.

"You know, if you're that busy, I could go to your room and bring you a fresh set of clothes." Lothar has no idea what to do with a mage such as Khadgar. How does the younger man usually spend his time? More importantly, how does Lothar spend his time? He doesn't remember what he used to do when he wasn't in a tavern and drinking his pain away. "I don't—I don't actually know what we could do. I usually…drink."

That sucks all the challenge right out of Khadgar. His shoulders slump, and he moves away from the door. If he wanted to leave before, he now knows he has to stay. It is almost painful, how Lothar looks at him. "Well, we'd start simple," he says in a soft voice. "If I conjure food, you can read Adariall her story later. She would be so happy if it was you; I don't think you'd have to explain anything about me and clothes. For the rest, we'll just…talk?" He smiles sheepishly. "See, this is why I always have books."

"Er—alright." Reading a bedtime story for his niece would be a challenge, especially since he doesn't know what he should read her. But he calms himself just as quickly as the doubt came. He has the answer standing in front of him after all. "What kind of stories would she like?" He asks it not only out of curiosity, but to start the conversation. "I think the last time I read to her was when she was this high." He indicates to the stool he sits on. "She barely reached my knees." The memory brings up images of Callan at that age, but he pushes them away. He does not need this right now.

"It's not that hard," says Khadgar. "She's got books. Either she'll ask about one of them, or she'll ask you to tell her about something about your life. Between you and me, I think she asks for stories just to have someone to spend time with her. She talks about you a lot. And sometimes, we just play a game." He likes this more and more. Adariall has mentioned missing her Uncle Anduin since the orcs came. "I'd go with you, but my clothes." Khadgar tilts his head. "But if you go drinking after and you leave me in here, I'm coming for you, wearing your clothes or not. So if you have to drink, then buy a bottle and bring it back here."

They talk some more, about everything and anything. Very few topics are not breached, and those all include the recent war against the Orcs. It seems that both of them do not want to deal with the uncomfortable truths right now. 

This continues for at least a week. Every night either Khadgar or Lothar finds his way into the other's bed, cuddling beneath the blanket in their slumber. It is the most peaceful sleep Lothar has had in a long time, and Khadgar, never having known the touch of another just for the sake of being close, gets used to it as well.

It is the beginning of Winter Veil when Lothar finds Khadgar in his room. It has been an eventful day, being that Lothar got back in the game and at the war table. It consisted of meetings and talks with nobles Lothar doesn't particularly like, but has to talk to as not to make Stormwind lose allies. His impatience must have shown in the last few talks, and he has been more than glad to get out of there as soon as possible and make his way to Khadgar to spend the evening with him. 

He has been sober since that first night.

Thus the commander finds himself in Khadgar's room once more, the door left open as always for Lothar to enter. The older man chuckles exhaustedly when he finds Khadgar on his bed, reading. Lothar shakes himself off of the snowflakes clinging to his hair. The weather acted up a few hours ago. "Khadgar?" His voice is clear. "I'm back."

Khadgar takes one look at him, blinks, and bolts up. "It's snowing! I mean, that's actual snow, isn't it?" He has given up spending his nights in the library when he can also bring books back with him. Few things are as soothing as being around someone who lets him read while still giving him company. It is no longer just to make sure that Lothar sleeps; somehow, Lothar has asked for him earlier and earlier, to the point where they spend almost all evening around each other when not otherwise occupied. Khadgar could question that, because he knows other people would think suspiciously of it, but he really, really likes it. Even if sometimes his dreams turn into situations that he'd rather not mention, the last few days. "Is it really snowing?" He may or may not be repeating himself. It gives an excuse to look at Lothar for a little longer.

"Yes, it is." Lothar is a little confused. How can it be that the young man can ask about the white stuff with such wonder in his eyes? Does he not know the pain in the ass snow can be, especially for the people of Stormwind? "It's a pain in the ass most of the time, though." He looks towards Khadgar, notices the way the other looks at him. As he has so often these days. Lothar might be a little thick sometimes, but he is not dumb. What he doesn't know is why. "Have you never seen snow before?"

Now Khadgar scoffs. "Of course I have. I'm not some backward kid who's never been outside of Dalaran. It's just, snow is beautiful. Especially when it's still falling." He pushes the sheets off and pads across the warm floor to the closet. Since Lothar started it, Khadgar has become a little less aware of his own naked legs. He hops into one of his robes, slips into fluffy winter boots and tops it off with a white cloak that would make him disappear like a bunny in a wintry meadow. "Sorry. I'll be back in a bit. Don't go to sleep without me." It's seven in the evening. Still.

Although Lothar is exhausted from pretending to like nobles all day, he feels in the mood for a little walk in the fresh night air. This is what he tells himself. What he really wants is to spend some time with Khadgar, and if the younger man wants this time spent in snow and ice on the streets if Stormwind, so be it. He doesn't have a problem with it, as much as he tries to deny that fact. "You are always so fast to leave me behind," he chuckles, his tone teasing. "How about we go together? I can show you the best places where the snow is fresh and white, instead of muddy from people stepping on it all day."

"I have a life of my own," is jabbed back at him with equal amounts of teasing. "You can't keep me in bed forever." Khadgar no longer flushes when he says it. There has been much suggestion in his words since they became comfortable in each other's arms, and especially after Lothar pointed out that what they were doing would be frowned upon. It seems to have grown into a thing of its own, because more often than not he gets back a response of the same nature. It doesn't change that Khadgar really wants this to be something that it most definitely is not. There are nights when he wonders what he is doing, fooling himself that this could be more than what they make of it. Still, Lothar is smiling more these days. There have been no more incidents at taverns. That means that it can't all be bad. "Very well," he accepts, "lead the way."

Once Lothar has righted his clothes as well, he leads Khadgar out of the castle and towards the more quiet parts of the city. Behind the Cathedral of Light, this big imposing building bespeaking of Stormwindian craftsmanship, is a small park with pavilions and benches, is where he brings Khadgar. 

The day is dark with snowy clouds blocking out the sun, yet Lothar can see perfectly fine. The snow has a certain glow to it that almost blinds him when he stares at it for too long, and he is thankful that the moon is not out yet. Here, in this small park, the sheet of white is pure, not yet stained by mud and urine. Lothar grins. "Come tomorrow, snowmen will stand here as guardians. It's the perfect place for children to play, and so is usually well kept." The urge to take some snow and shove it into Khadgar's face becomes strong, almost too strong to resist. He has to cover his chuckle while his hand grips for some random snow on a bench.

It would be so easy, too. Khadgar is instantly in love with the scenery. He might like it a bit extra because it is as of yet untainted. Possibly he would like it the same with kids playing, but there is something magical to it here and now. Snow is falling through the trees around them. Some clings to his cloak to create a damp layer. The flakes are only visible when they get to his hair. The place is something pure, he thinks, in a world that has been too tainted with death. So when his eyes grow wet, it isn't something that he wants to share with anyone, and he rubs it away with embarrassment.

Just as Lothar is about to throw some of the white coldness into Khadgar's neck does he notice the younger man rubbing at his eyes. He manages not to let the snow fall from his fingers, but for now his plans are suspended. Time to figure out what's wrong with the younger man. "You okay?" He asks it carefully, then a more teasing tone creeps into his voice, "That short walk didn't tire you out, did it?"

Khadgar snorts. "Please," his voice wavers at first until it grows more solid, "I'm lazy but I'm not that terrible." He rubs at his nose, takes back control over his emotions, and nudges Lothar with his woolen mittens. "You surprise me. I expected a snowball at least."

"Well, as a matter of fact," and soon after, the hand full of snow finds its way into Khadgar's face. Lothar can't help it, and starts laughing. "I surprise you?" He jumps back and looks for new ammunition. But in his haste, he does not see the tree root—especially since it is hidden by the snow—and with a yelp, falls on his back, has the breath knocked out of him.

The snow is cold, and Khadgar gasps as he tries to get the watery slush out of his face. He prepares himself for magical payback, his eyes a hot blue and the air around them static. It is cut short when Lothar falls. "Light," Khadgar hurries forward, his magic flickering out, and crouches beside him. "Are you okay?" He almost uses Lothar's age to turn it into a tease of his own, but not until he knows that he isn't making fun of someone who is seriously injured.

Just then, a couple falls into the park, laughing as they cling to each other. Looking for a quiet spot, Khadgar thinks, but they still when they see them together. "Oh," the lady says, "ah, sorry. We didn't—" _think someone would already be there_. As unaware of Lothar having fallen as they are, they quickly excuse themselves and disappear again, leaving Khadgar feeling oddly disoriented and numb. Empty. He doesn't quite know where the feeling comes from.

Lothar doesn't see the couple, nor does he hear them. There is an odd serene noise in his ears, keeping away everything else. "‘M okay," he says, standing up with a groan. He is slightly disoriented when he stands on his own two feet once more. It seems that the snow is not as fresh as he thought, if the hardness of it made his ears ring. "I've had worse." He looks at Khadgar, shakes some of the snow in his hair out, "What is up?"

"Nothing." Eyes don't focus on Lothar though, and the mage's brows crease in a frown. "It's—nevermind." He offers a hand and shakes off the feeling, but it keeps nagging at him. It's, he doesn't know how else to put it, something like loneliness. Which is a far different emotion than what he has had to deal with since he first came to Stormwind. It is also, he decides, illogical. So he does the only thing he can think of, now that Lothar says he is good; he gets payback. With magic. Lots of it.

And Lothar is gone from his spot. It may have been a few years since he did something like this, having friendly banters with Medivh every so often, but he is far from rusty. In fact, if anything, the encounters with the Orcs have shown him that he needs to keep his skills sharp, which he has been doing aside from drinking every day since Llane fell. Now it is in his favor as he ducks behind a bench, then jumps to the next like a cat while Khadgar prepares his onslaught. He feels oddly alive doing this, and may even be laughing like a madman when a magical snow projectile hits him square in the face. A mouth full of snow is nothing!

"You're crazy," sounds from behind a tree from a voice ringing with laughter. The park no longer looks pristine. It has stopped being so since they declared it their battlefield. Khadgar tries to see where next to go. He really isn't good at close combat, his judgement terrible. When he makes a run for it, he knows immediately that Lothar has locked onto him. "Mercy!" he laughs, just as his eyes glow with the intent of a counterattack.

Still dodging magical projectiles, Lothar makes his way to Khadgar, sneaking up on him. He makes a few feints, as if he were in a warzone, then waits until he has Khadgar in front of a freshly fallen patch of snow before he jumps him. The mage is surprised when Lothar pushes against him, and falls over, the commander on top. Lothar's hair hangs into his face, wet from snow and the exertion. He is all smiles as he looks down on Khadgar, daring him to free himself. "Got you."

The problem is that Khadgar, whose light has fizzled out, is staring wide-eyed at Lothar, almost like prey ready for slaughter. He knows he can get out. It takes only an arcane word, or a smart jab somewhere. But in his head, he has no idea what to do. "Got me," he laughs awkwardly. "You win. Can we team up on others next time? I'd like that more."

"Sure," he laughs. Lying on Khadgar is rather comfortable, even if the cold now permitting his wet clothes is cutting into his skin. He feels the mage's breath ghost over his face and starts, then looks at the younger man beneath him with wide eyes. For like the first time ever, he suddenly realizes how nice Khadgar's eyes look. They are such a deep brown that it reminds Lothar of the chocolate he usually gets around Winter Veil, even though there is a hint of green hidden in then. For some reason, he can't stop staring at them, gets lost in them. After an awkward moment, he clears his throat and tries to stand up. "Sorry about that."

Down in the snow, Khadgar blinks. What just happened? "Right," he brushes it off, "you clearly bumped your head in that fall. Let's see if we can find something less dangerous for you." Eggnog sounds like a plan—or would, if it didn't have the ability to get Lothar drunk. "So what is Stormwind known for during Winter Veil?"

It takes very little effort to get the subject changed. All the same, Khadgar continues to think about Lothar's response all throughout that night. He lets himself be taken on a tour, liking it most when night falls and the snow gets a faintly blue glow to it.

When he watches Lothar fall asleep that night, Khadgar breathes out a shaky breath.

Unbeknownst to him, he is not the only one confused. Lothar feels just as lost as the mage, especially when he, for once, wakes up before Khadgar. It is still early in the morning, dawn still settling in the city. The bed in the inn is not as comfortable as Lothar's own, but they make do with it. Right now, Khadgar is using one of Lothar's arms as a pillow while the other is over Khadgar's hip, warm and heavy. If Lothar would move, he'd have a mouthful of Khadgar's hair on his tongue. Normally, this would make him grin, but right now the peacefulness of the situation shouldn't be shattered. Instead he looks at Khadgar with a smile in his eyes, memorizes his features. He just hopes that the younger man does not wake up from it. This would make for awkward questions.

But comfortable where he is, it takes minutes before Khadgar stirs in the least. He makes a sound when he wakes, and moves to stretch before unconsciously correcting himself; he chances waking someone else up if he isn't careful. So when he opens his eyes and finds Lothar awake, that is a new thing. "Good morning," he murmurs. "Nightmare again?"

"No," Lothar shakes his head, coming to rest his hand on Khadgar's shoulder when the younger man looks up at him. It is warm, in stark contrast to the coldness of the room. The inn is not as warm as the castle. "I woke up and…I don't know." He licks his lips, "I watched you, as creepy as it sounds. Sorry."

Sleepy as he is, Khadgar first hums in agreement. Of course. Totally normal. He closes his eyes and finds a more comfortable spot. His eyes suddenly open. "You did what?" Khadgar's mouth opens and closes. "Why?" is all he can come up with.

"I don't know? It felt— it felt right." A flush creeps upon Lothar's cheeks. He tries to turn his head away, but can't, as he would have to get out of the bed to do so. Thus he could stick to the truth. "I really like this, Khadgar. This sleeping arrangement. I hope…I hope you don't think of me as a sentimental fool, now."

The sheets rustle as Khadgar readjusts. His eyes keep on Lothar, but at least they have a bit more distance. "I haven't told anyone about this," he admits. "They'd have their opinions, and I would have to come up with excuses. That's how it goes when grown people—well, It just works for you and me. I haven't had this much sleep in weeks either." He wonders why he is giving Lothar excuses, if not for wholly selfish reasons. Khadgar does not want this to stop. "And you've not gotten drunk for some time." He smiles to himself. "I'm proud of you, Lothar."

The admission makes a warm feeling swell in Lothar's chest. He can't help the smile stretching his face. "Thanks." The others have realized it as well. A meeting in the corridors with Taria has shown as much, and her pleasant smile had been worth it. "And you haven't read yourself into exhaustion, so it's beneficial for both." And then there is the awkward silence again. Lothar doesn't know how to breach it without making a fool of himself, but he does not want it to go on forever. Thus he clears his throat. "I would like for this to continue. If you don't mind, that is." Just as an afterthought, he adds, "But not in this bed. From now on, we should sleep in mine."

"Until we both feel better," Khadgar agrees, because he is deathly afraid to read more into it. "I'd like that." Lothar is asking things he doesn't know how to handle. Or rather, he tries to handle them as best as he can, but his heart is hammering in his chest. He stretches more and moves into a sitting position. The fire in the hearth has gone out throughout the night, the air outside the bed terribly cold, and with a groan he returns tucked under blankets. "I can't ask you to get breakfast, can I?"

The warrior is on the verge of saying that he'd really like to do this even if they are both better, but he swallows it for now. His stomach demands nutrition, and he knows that Khadgar's is most likely the same. Thus he crawls out of bed and shudders when the coldness strikes his warm body. "Light, it's cold." Suddenly, Lothar has the urge to plant a big kiss on Khadgar's forehead. He has to rein himself in completely not to go through with it. Instead he grins, tries to cover his nervousness with teasing remarks. "Don't start anything without me." His tone is light, and he hopes Khadgar takes it as such. Soon after, he is on his way down to gather breakfast, leaving Khadgar alone in the room.

Khadgar rolls his eyes and gives him a mildly offended look, the way he has done so many times in the past. What would he start without Lothar, anyway?

Except he is in a bed. And it is a good thing Lothar is out the door when Khadgar's thoughts turn on him full term. He falls back, pulls the sheets up over his head and just—well, he wants to shout. If nobody would run the chance of entering this room at any time, he's sure he would whimper. Light, he doesn't know anymore. And their teasing is starting to get to him more than it should. Should he tell, he wonders? But if he does, then Lothar would be without any other solution than to go back to drinking. Yet if he doesn't, he is sure he is going to wake up kissing him one day. "Why are you so difficult?!" he hisses to himself.

It is minutes later that Lothar returns, eggs, bacon and a pitcher of water in his hands. A loaf of bread is balanced beneath his arm, and he has made sure that it hasn't had the chance to be covered in sweat. Getting into the room is hard with his hands full like this, but the closing of the door is just a nudge of his foot. When he arrives, it is to Khadgar still beneath the blanket, looking for all the world like a deep sleeper. All Lothar can see of him are his dark locks sticking out from under it.

He sets the meal aside on the table and asks tentatively, "Khadgar?" Perhaps the mage has gone back to sleep, who knows. Lothar sits down on the bed next to him, but does not dare touch the bundle of blankets just yet. "I hope you are not asleep. I don't want my effort right now to be in vain."

"Not asleep," sounds muffled from under the blanket. Khadgar takes a second longer to tug the sheets down to show his face. "Hi. Right. Breakfast." He sits up, tucks his legs under him, and looks at the eggs and bacon longingly. "Light, I'm starved. I…oh," he blinks, "I don't think I had dinner yesterday." It's a silly thing to realize, and though it hasn't been the first time, it certainly hasn't not been because of books or studies before.

They share the food easily. Neither cares about crumbs on the sheets. Khadgar groans when a sliver of bacon drops though; the innkeeper isn't going to be happy about that. "So," he asks, "are there things you need to do because of the festival? Does this mean you have to have dinner with important people, or hold a speech somewhere?"

"I could bring dinner tomorrow," Lothar says without thinking. He wouldn't really mind doing a quick detour through the kitchens to get something to eat for the two of them. Only, of course, if Khadgar doesn't mind. He has no time to dwell on it, however, since Khadgar already asks him about his day. He groans when he thinks about his duties. "I have an important meeting. Some nobles want Stormwind to send soldiers in order to get their lands back from the Orcs. I need to be as polite as possible when I tell them to shove it." He bites off a piece of bacon. "We cannot spread our forces this thin." Without meaning to, he slips into the comfortable role of the explainer, telling his current situation to someone who is not directly involved with it. It feels nice, very nice. One could almost say domestic.

Some time later, when they have finally dressed and are ready to depart for the day—Lothar to the meeting room and Khadgar to the library—something else happens. Before they leave for the day, Lothar drags Khadgar into an embrace, presses the mage against him. Short as it is, it still brings a certain flush upon Lothar's cheek, which won't go away no matter what he tries. He awkwardly releases Khadgar once more, then clears his throat and leaves, unable to meet Khadgar's eyes.

Left in the room, Khadgar's emotions begin to overpower him. If that was casual, he thinks, then Lothar would have looked at him and made an added remark. If it was casual, it would have been light. But there is a strong suspicion that the hug meant something. He sits down on the bed and falls back. 

Through his many feelings, he can't help but break into a smile.

He busies himself with preparations and visits that day. The Cathedral of Light is visited just for the singing choir in the afternoon. Khadgar has lunch with Lady Taria at three; meetings kept being pushed back until eventually she gave up and adjourned them for the next day. Khadgar loves the festivities. 

Lothar's meeting with the nobles goes as planned. For some reason, he channels all of his frustration and his nervousness concerning Khadgar into his stance, and surely enough, the nobles accept his judgement without too much complaint. He plays in the snow with Varian and Adariall for a while, both of them trying to take their uncle on. Lothar does not mind it, because the two kids haven't been this happy in a long time. He lets his family members use him as a walking target practice as they throw snowballs at him, which end with him wet to his bones, a chill on its way. Taria sends him to his room to change his clothes eventually, a smile in her voice and in her eyes, making Lothar sure that he has done something good today.

But as the evening draws nearer, his confusion grows. Little does he know how to talk to Khadgar without making things awkward between the two; his desire to hug the younger man, to touch him, surges forward all the time he is alone with the mage. He is lucky that Khadgar had not been awake a few days ago, when Lothar's dream had left him hot and heavy, hungry for the younger man's touch upon his aching flesh. At that time Lothar had managed to will it away, but what is the chance that he will be that lucky once more?

By the end of the day, Khadgar has bought himself a holly cloak pin and a few freshly baked gingerbread cookies to share. He hasn't visited the library all day, he thinks only when evening has come and he figures he'd rather use the comfortable chair in his bedroom to read some. He's mildly hesitant about just heading to Lothar's room despite how he knows Lothar wants him there. But, biding his time, Khadgar reads until nine, before he heads over and knocks on the door. 

"Good evening," he says with a nod, feeling oddly nervous. "I've got the fireworks show in three hours and I have a really hard time staying awake. So I thought I'd go outside. Care to come?"

When Khadgar finally shows up, Lothar is happy to go out with him, as the coldness will make sure that he keeps his clothes on. And seeing Khadgar coming alive with wonder and happiness upon seeing the snow is completely worth all the trouble in the world.

Their way leads them to the Park on the other end of town. Couples are everywhere, using this last opportunity to have a romantic evening before the Orcs will siege the city. The undercurrent of war is buzzing beneath everyone's skin, but the people have become used to it. Stormwind is a kingdom of warriors after all; they can handle it. And if not, they still have a very capable mage on their hands.

The small hill overlooking the harbor is their destination, at least for now. It is here that they will have the best view over the half frozen sea on one side, and of the rest of the city on the other. The cathedral is alight with the lamps illuminating Cathedral Square. Lothar likes it here. He places his hands on the stone wall surrounding the park and grins as he stares towards the light. "When do you have to do the firework?"

"Midnight." Khadgar leans against the wall next to him. In his eyes reflect the many lights of the city, as well as a sense of wonder. He has never given so much thought to rituals, his childhood having been full of them. They usually meant dull hours of standing still while an old guy said things. And those verses had admittedly been interesting the first time, when the stories were still new; they had quickly grown into repetitions instead. He doesn't think Stormwind's winter season will ever be dull to him. It matters that he has Lothar by his side. "The lights will go out in Oldtown," he says. "About a minute before it starts. I'm not the only one doing something; I think we have fire dancers too. Anyway, I come in at the end, so I say midnight, but in truth," he rolls his eyes, "it'll be a long night."

Despite his troubles staying awake—which have gone, now that he is outside and any cold wind can still occasionally make him shiver—he really looks forward to it all. Lothar could see it in his eyes if he dared to look; Khadgar is moved by the thought of bringing the same wonder he has felt for days to the people of Stormwind. He doesn't think it'll be more spectacular than the fire dancers, and he certainly won't be the highlight of the night; he does it because he wants to. "Will you come have a look?" he asks. "If anything, you'll be just as cold as I when we crawl into bed, so I wouldn't shock you awake." He smiles softly, but he is a mess inside. Khadgar just really can't stop glancing at Lothar every now and then, and he fears his interest is noticed, but at the same time he also wants it to be seen. So whenever Lothar threatens to catch him staring, he waits just a second longer before averting his eyes, his cheeks aflush while his hands clasp each other, mittenless tonight though tucked into warm sleeves nonetheless.

Glances linger, cheeks color—Lothar does not know that Khadgar is in the same situation he is in. Reining himself in as not to do something stupid has never been this hard; especially since Khadgar's lips seem to beckon him, anytime he looks upon the younger man. He swallows, then looks towards the harbor once more, tries to commit the small ships anchoring there into his memory. "Say, Khadgar," he begins, his voice calmer than he feels himself. "What are we? To each other, I mean." It is a question he has pondered for himself whenever his mind wasn't filled with duty. The answer is still as unclear as on the first day.

Khadgar startles. Every part of him feels both warm and oddly stiff, like summer when the heat slows him down. "Friends," he says, unable to look now. If he would, his thoughts would cease to work. "At least that." He bites his lips and squeezes his eyes shut. "But I am selfish. I don't think I'd like it much if you found someone else to sleep next to." Fearful of what answer Lothar will give—what consequences those words are going to bring—he looks down at the ground when his eyes open again.

Lothar feels how his breath catches in his throat. Is Khadgar really saying what the older man thinks he's saying? Slowly, he inches closer to Khadgar, looks at him from the side. The younger man is so beautiful in the ongoing light that Lothar wants to do nothing more than drag him close and hug him tight. "Friends," he says, a nervous smile on his face, "What if I told you that I want more? That I want to sleep next to you for a long time? That I want to…kiss you?"

Khadgar doesn't know how to handle that. Sure, he may have hoped, and he may have played this moment out in dreams both wakeful as in his sleep, but he has at the same time always assumed that it wasn't really in the cards. Lothar has many reasons not to choose him. The city depends on him, for starters. Despite Lothar's tendence to shoot people down, many people still change the way they behave when they are in his vicinity, so as to earn his approval. And Lothar may word his sentences in what-ifs; Khadgar knows him well enough to understand that he is testing the waters. He carefully looks up, finds the man much closer than he was previously, and in one fluent but very awkward moment pecks him on the lips. "I would tell you that would make me very happy," mumbles he.

Lothar's flushes, a deep shade of red as the blood rushes into his cheeks. His lips burn where Khadgar has kissed him. Though it was a slight peck, it leaves him craving more. He looks into Khadgar's eyes, hopes that the younger man sees in them the honesty with which he presents himself to Khadgar. His breath catches in his throat, then he sets his hands upon Khadgar's shoulders. "Can I kiss you once more? That would make me very happy."

Only Stormwind's lights illuminate them, so most of the visual evidence of Lothar being flustered passes by Khadgar unseen. Too nervous himself, he simply nods. A stupid smile appears on his lips. Light, the man he likes returns it all. How long now? Since when they started sharing a bed? Later, or is it recent? The snow has abated for now when Khadgar takes in the sight that is the Lion of Azeroth, up in close proximity, and he does his very best to keep his nerves under control. Lothar is even more overwhelming up close.

The smile is as breathtaking as always, and it makes Lothar's heart pound in his chest. His want—his need—to feel Khadgar's lips upon his own is multiplied. He is so nervous to fuck this up that his blood pounds in his ears. Licking dry lips does not help the situation at all. Before he goes through with his plan, he smoothes his sweaty hands over Khadgar's coat, tries for all he knows to make it seem a if he's fearless when it is anything but. Khadgar's beard scratches his bare hands where he cups it, and then his lips descend, eyes closing, so that he may feel the fullness of Khadgar's lips upon his own as well as the electrifying feeling of their first kiss.

They stand frozen for a moment, in their own world up on the hill where nobody finds them and nobody can see them. Then, Khadgar unwinds. His arms slip around Lothar's in response, much like how they tangle in bed so naturally, and he pushes himself close against the other man. Their lips move against each other on their own accord. They grow ever more hungry, though by some chance of luck they never go too far. A warmth surges through him. He smiles inwardly with a glow on his skin for Lothar to see, kissing him with everything he feels. Surprisingly, Khadgar's mind is entirely empty when it finally happens. He no longer worries, or hopes, or disbelieves; lost in the moment, it is impossible to take any of this as dishonest. As such, he is also speechless when they break apart for a second to look at each other. "…Hi," he whispers, self-aware but happy.

Lothar feels warm, even though the air around the pair is cold in its winters charm. The only shudder going through his body is one of anticipation when he imagines what their next kiss will be like. And the next—and the next. When they finally break apart, his eyes glisten in the light, focused on Khadgar. The sight of flushed cheeks and eyes alight with wonder and amazement one that he will never tire of. 

"Hi," he says just as breathlessly, then a soft chuckle escapes his lips. The snow picks up again. Big white flakes fall from the sky, catching in Khadgar's hair, making it seem as if a thousand stars are alive in his dark locks. Lothar wishes that this moment could last forever. "Again?" He asks it before he can think better of it, and then, without making another sound, surges forward and kisses the swollen lips once more, just as sweetly as before, but with a underlining heat that simmers just beneath the surface.

Khadgar melts. He can feel everything. If he wanted to assure himself that he is not Garona, he would only have to recall Lothar as he was nervous. People aren't nervous about something that is only convenient. And the same goes for everything else. It means something. For the first time he curses Winter Veil, because now that they have discovered what a kiss tastes like, the scheduled fireworks are horribly inconvenient.

They spend a long time invested only in each other's lips. The cold makes that Khadgar's hands do not unbutton Lothar's overcoat to tuck underneath; they press together all they want and still have thick inches of fur to separate them. Two hours remain before the show when Khadgar starts pulling him along, back to the castle.

Lothar lets him. Their way through the city is filled with snowflakes flying into their faces and crunching footsteps, houses illuminated by warm lights, couples here and there kissing while their children run askew. Whereas Lothar had envied all those people with loved one's again only last year, this time he finds himself far luckier. He has someone he really likes, too, and on his side nonetheless. Not only that, but he knows Khadgar to be a competent, if slightly inexperienced comrade. Lothar is suddenly very glad that the younger man had managed to fight off the demon.

He shows it to him in grateful touches while they walk; dark alleys become their safe haven for a quick peck, and their pace to the castle is delayed somewhat as they cannot keep their hands to themselves. If it weren't for the cold, they'd be fooling around like teenagers, Lothar is sure of it. 

It makes him chuckle as they finally reach his room. Upon seeing the door, a sudden realization fills him, speckled with dread. What is he supposed to do now? Keep kissing the younger man? Or does Khadgar want more? And most importantly—could he live up to expectations? These thoughts keep him busy while they enter the room, and also when they rid themselves of their outer layers. They fly out of the window, though, when Khadgar kisses him heatedly once more, drags the warrior close to wrap his arms around a muscled frame. It makes Lothar groan low in his throat as he himself embraces Khadgar. Their chests rub together while they kiss, so near to each other do they stand.

Khadgar has never been with Lothar like this. There have been times when both of them wore less, only inches apart or not even that. But tonight is more meaningful than that, and Khadgar doesn't want to rush it. His body, in that regard, is rebellious. "Lothar?" he whispers between kisses that lead to more kisses until they become a chain that neither of them can break. "What do you want?" He came here for the privacy and the warmth. Partly also to get out of his coat so he could pull Lothar closer properly. But Khadgar has no idea how to handle more—or how he would stop himself in time to still make it to the fireworks festivities in time. He smiles timidly, kisses Lothar's cheek, and then that too dissolves into heated kisses. Khadgar is drowning.

"I—" Lothar doesn't know what he wants besides those plush lips to stay on his own. Perhaps to map the body he'd been pressed against for the past few weeks with his hands? "I want to be near you, Khadgar," he tells him, unable to rein in his desire to be with the younger man. "And I want you to feel good." He wants this to be nothing like this quick fling with Garona. Gods, he wants so much he feels as if he's going to burst. Not knowing what to do next, he kisses the younger man once, before he presses their foreheads against each other. "Can I touch you?"

"Touch me where?" asks Khadgar almost instantly, before it smacks him in the face how forward that is. "Light, sorry! Let's just—let's just lie down?" He imagines Lothar simply sticking his hand where it doesn't yet belong, which is not quite what he wants, but he doesn't mind warm palms against his side. A body atop his own. One thing is clear; they both need more than what they are currently getting. So Khadgar slips off his boots, and crawls back on the bed. His eyes do not leave the other man. All of a sudden, out of Lothar's reach, he feels nervous again.

Lothar swallows, the sight before him far too delicious. How he managed to resist it all those weeks they slept beside each other is beyond him, and he wishes nothing more than to lie in the bed with Khadgar, press the younger man into the mattress with his body while his fingers run over the mage's chest. Slipping out of his boots, he crawls onto the bed and presses his weight on the body beneath him, resting kisses upon Khadgar's face. "Khadgar," he whispers, "Just tell me if I do something you aren't comfortable with, alright?" Carefully, his hand slips beneath linen to touch warm skin, caresses it, while his lips come to rest upon Khadgar's neck, pepper it with kisses.

So far, Lothar does everything that sets Khadgar on a path of no return. He tries to remind himself that he has an appointment in an hour and a half. They'd really be better off waiting until after he is done with that; they'd have no more disruptions. But his head falls back with a sigh in stark contrast to all the exclamation marks buzzing in his head. "I'm comfortable," he murmurs, then allows his hands to wander and his fingers to tuck into belt loops. In a split second, he tugs Lothar higher up on him and captures his mouth. The kiss that follows is a struggle for dominance, almost. "You can touch me," Khadgar allows when they pull apart, "but we go in thirty minutes." He smiles up at Lothar, so close that his eyes have to look left and right to focus on the other man. "Let me do the show on time."

"Don't worry. I'll make sure you don't miss it," Lothar grins. It would look a little bit foolish if the person responsible for the firework didn't show up. The thought of keeping Khadgar here has its merits, but tempting as it might be, he doesn't want to do this to the people of Stormwind. He'll have Khadgar to himself afterwards. 

Thus his hand strays now, doesn't want to waste another minute when it slips beneath trousers and underwear to firmly grasp aching flesh. Khadgar's erection is hot to the touch, and Lothar kisses the younger man while he tugs at it, once, just to see what kind of reaction it might bring forth from the mage.

Khadgar gasps instantly. Half of his mind is still worried that this might be one time; the other half can't quite think straight. He prefers the other half. The kiss grows hard. He bites Lothar's lip without intending to. "That was—fast," he pants, and moves to undo his top buttons without asking. His trousers are tight enough as they are around the waist. "Light. Oh. Alright."

The faint pain that shoots through his lip goes straight to his groin and he moans deeply. Yet Lothar falters. He does not move his hand, lets it rest around Khadgar's member, concerned eyes focused on the younger man. "Am I too fast? I can slow down—" He licks over his split lip. It stings. "Tell me what you want, Khadgar." His voice is heavy with his arousal.

"No, you simply," the mage smiles apologetically, "surprised me." His eyes are half-lidded, his lips parted; there is no way he does not want this. "I just want you." His words ring with honesty. It isn't about getting off, or an affection that he hasn't had in ages. It isn't about Lothar being good, or Khadgar returning the favor. Khadgar simply wants them, together. But the hand wrapped around him is a definite bonus. "I really like you," he admits as his legs fall open and his hands play with the warrior's hair.

A kiss is set upon Khadgar's cheek, then Lothar smiles against his skin. "I like you, too," is whispered into Khadgar's ear, before teeth nibble at the lobe. There is nothing else on the warrior's mind than the young man beneath him, his smell, his taste, his beauty. He kisses Khadgar's neck slowly, drags his teeth softly over the skin, while his hand resumes its task, slowly going up and down Khadgar's hard erection. Every moan and every breathy gasp Khadgar lets forth spurs Lothar on; the entire room seems to grow hotter and hotter by the second. Lothar's free hand finds its way upon Khadgar's side, strokes over the mage's stomach up and up beneath the shirt until it reaches a nipple, pinches it. His own erection rubs against his trousers as he moves to sit in between Khadgar's spread legs.

It is scary to be letting down his guard. Khadgar squirms and whimpers, but is at the same time incredibly aware that he does. This is Lothar, who has mocked him and been a downright pest drinking himself into oblivion. His eyes open every now and then, just to assure himself that Lothar is enjoying this too. His heart is beating faster, his breathing irregular. At some point, his own hands start to wander. They grasp at trousers, sides, and—ignoring common etiquette—start on Lothar's belt before bothering with his shirt. "We have time to do this properly later," he murmurs, impatient and hot and oh so sensitive.

Lothar's breath catches in his throat. "Yes," he whispers against Khadgar's neck. Cannot help but grin a little when dirty words start forming in his mind. "Later I'll map your entire body with my tongue." It may be a little bold, but Lothar is so hot for the mage beneath him that his verbal filter is completely gone. It makes him more honest. The hand beneath Khadgar's shirt strokes down and drags the linen upwards, exposes the skin beneath. Soon after, Lothar's mouth takes the place his finger's just abandoned, and the grip around Khadgar's erection intensifies while he takes the small bud into his mouth and sucks.

They push against each other like they are running out of time. But although there are other things to think about, Khadgar idly does keep track of the time. His fingers undo the belt, pull it out all the way—which is an unnecessary action, but he isn't really thinking straight. He pushes the trousers down while dealing with the delicious distraction, and very clumsily finds his way at last to Lothar's underwear. But Khadgar isn't quite so bold as to grasp it, and rather clasps at the man's buttocks to drive his hips down. He isn't ready for the friction that follows. "Are you real?" he asks in wonder, fully breathless as he arches up against Lothar's ridiculously skilled tongue.

The friction contributes to Lothar's arousal like nothing before has. His mouth leaves Khadgar's nipple to latch onto his neck again, sucking a hickey against the pale skin. "Fuck, Khadgar," he whispers. His hand leaves Khadgar's cock to come to rest against Khadgar's side, as does the other. Only then does Lothar's hips buck down in earnest, chasing the heat of their crotches rubbing against each other. The pleasure he gains through friction is so mind-blowing, so foreign, that he cannot do anything else but rest his head against Khadgar's neck and gasp every time they move together.

Finally, after more than an hour of kissing outside and a good ten minutes of discovering more of each other than that, does Khadgar finally begin to get his bearings about him. He pushes up out of instinct, and if he surrenders under Lothar, then he does so with a fight. His body undulates, his hips rolling up to seek more of everything. They are both still in their undergarments, but they don't need more. Hands dig into hips, and the gasps from his lips rise in a crescendo, until they are a chorus of small, staccato moans. "Lothar," Khadgar breathes in warning. "Lothar—"

Minutes into their desperate frotting has Lothar on the verge of coming. His hands grasp for something, anything, until they find their way into Khadgar's hair and grasp at it. His lips seek Khadgar's multiple times, and when he finds himself on the edge, teeth nibble at the sensitive skin behind the younger man's ear. He realizes the warning for what it is, gives one of his own in the way he says Khadgar's name over and over again. On the back of his mind, he hopes that Khadgar will see this for what it is—not a quick thing, but rather something more permanent. "Khadgar, Khadgar, Khadgar…" The friction becomes too much and he chases it, relishes in it, until it is finally over and it peaks on the mountain of ecstasy. He comes with a harsh moan into his undergarments, his eyes closed. In the next moment, he forces them open however, not wanting to miss the expression on Khadgar's face when he, too, is swallowed by the tide of pleasure.

He needs but a few seconds. Khadgar clings to him, as if hiding himself against Lothar's shoulder will help. His own release comes when from a waterfall of sounds he becomes very quiet. His lips part, his eyes screwed shut. A single sigh escapes him. But for all his silence, Khadgar grasps at Lothar. His hips jerk wildly, and his feet are pressing against the other man's calves. "Light," he stammers. "Okay. That was—" Fast? Perfect? But also far too rushed to be a one time thing? All of these things and more, Khadgar wants to say. Instead he falls back to kisses, desperate until they slow down to tender at long last. "Did we just do that?"

Harsh breaths is followed by tender kisses that take Lothar's breath away. Still reeling from his high, he finally calms down when Khadgar asks his question. He laughs lightly, "I sure hope so." His voice is teasing, words heavy in his mouth from satisfaction. He chases a particular soft kiss, nibbles lightly at Khadgar's lips. "Light, that was amazing, Khadgar. It felt really—good." He sighs, completely at ease. "How do you feel?"

"Like I'm going to wake up soon," smiles Khadgar. "I hope I won't." He looks between them once; there is no need to say that he isn't normally like this, because Lothar knows him well enough for that. "I don't—" he starts, takes a breath, and continues, "Does this mean—?" Finally, fed up with his own lack of knowing, he groans. Khadgar has no idea how someone like Lothar, who is surrounded by royalty, courts someone. "Are you mine?"

For a moment, Lothar pauses. He looks to Khadgar, and blue eyes meet brown, watch them deeply. His glance is nothing but serious. "Yes," he breathes, a word so easy that one says it everyday, yet never derives it's beauty until moments like this. "If you'll have me." A flush colors his cheeks and he swallows, his attention entirely focused on Khadgar. His hands come to rest on the younger man's hips, settling there with warm digits, doing nothing but rest.

And Khadgar draws him down until their lips meet again, their exchange soft. He nods into the kiss. Yes, he'll have him.

* * *

Sparks of frost fizzle up into the night sky. The square is shrouded in darkness, all eyes on the spectacle in the center. Khadgar has spent days perfecting the programme, and the sequences he performs are increasingly intricate. They are also increasingly technically more difficult, but the still flame that dances in his hand and creates a mandala of fire around him until it dissolves info frost flowers turns out to be a favorite that has been worth the effort. As are the tiny arcane wisps floating through the audience like pale blue fireflies.

He sends one to Lothar, too. Although there is more meaning to his choice now, the man has been in his routine from the start. He is the city's courage, and the city needs him now. So a grand display of fire draws paw prints on the floor, walking up to the Lion, before the banner of the Alliance bursts into being behind him in frost. Khadgar smiles at him knowingly.

He finds him afterwards, when the last illusion has gone out in a bang and the crowd is left in the dark, whispers filling the void. Khadgar kisses Lothar's cheek. "Thanks for being here," says he, disentangling himself before the lights go back on. "Did you like it?"

The display has been breathtaking. Lothar still has lights dancing in front of his eyes. His gaze searches patterns long gone for a moment, before they come to a rest upon his beautiful mage. Lothar knows that the lights will come on soon once more, but he just cannot resist and plants a quick peck on Khadgar's lips. "I loved it," his voice is full of optimism. "You have given the people of Stormwind a reminder that there is still something worth fighting for." 

He wants to embrace Khadgar, to press him close, to do things to him. Later, he says to himself. "And me, too. Thank you." In that moment, the lights go on again. bathing Khadgar with a light that makes him glow. 

Lothar smiles at him. "How about we celebrate a little in private?"


End file.
